Flash Mob

by Gregory A Kompes

  With tear and exhaustion blurred vision, Billy tossed cash at the driver and got out in front of Jericho's building. It was time to find his own place. He had some money in the bank. What about Hank? How does he fit into this now? he wondered as he used his key to enter the apartment. He stopped and listened. All was quiet. He went to his little room, set the alarm clock, and slumped into bed. It felt good to be horizontal, alone under the comfortable cotton sheets. Sleep came fast and solid.

  * * *

  Aamil read the 42nd Street review in the New York Times for a third time. He was so pleased with himself that he'd seen it in previews and agreed with every positive word the reviewer wrote. He felt a twinge of jealousy at the three paragraphs about Billy Lake's journey from chorus boy to star. He wanted that to be his experience, but there was no way a dark-skinned, Middle Eastern man would be the lead in such a western-centric musical. Still, it's what he wanted, to sing and dance on stage. He knew he had the talent; all he needed was an opportunity.

  On his next visit to the kebob stand, he picked up a fresh copy of The Village Voice. No one offered any words or looks of objection. Later that evening, he scoured the want ads for things he thought he might be able to do. He read the lists of cattle calls for shows and dreamed about being on stage.

  He started at a loud bang on his door. Aamil sat up straight, scared, and angry. The nightly banging routine had stopped several days ago, but now it was happening again.

  He waited. The shadow of feet was easy to see from the rather large gap at the bottom of his door. He still didn't recognize the shoes. He'd made a point of looking at everyone's feet now, especially his boss' and those of the men at the kebob stand. No one he’d seen had that same, distinct, pair of shoes.

  Bang!

  Aamil contemplated going to the door.

  Bang!

  Waves of fear washed over him. He looked down at the open newspaper with penciled circles around possible auditions. Aamil closed the paper and hid it under his matress. It was as if they knew somehow.

  For the next hour, he sat in his little apartment in absolute fear as the intermittent bangs on the door continued. And, as randomly as they'd started, they stopped. The feet disappeared from the gap at the bottom of the door. Aamil wanted to get up, open the door, look down the hall, and see if he could catch the man. But, fear kept him in his place.

  Seventeen

  After going to 42nd Street and not being accosted by his boss or any of the men who watched his every move, Aamil grew more brazen. He went for longer walks in the evenings after dinner. Each night he added another block to his circuitous route home from the kebob shop. No one seemed to follow him anymore and he gradually stopped looking over his shoulder. Although, whenever he waited at a crosswalk for the light that signaled he could continue, he made a point of looking at all the faces, or at least the feet, of those standing around him. No one ever seemed to look suspicious any more.

  Even though his dress was different from those around him, the copy of the Village Voice that was tucked under his arm allowed him the illusion that he fit in, that he was simply another New Yorker out and about in the cool of the evening air. He no longer worried about being caught with the left-wing rag because the kebob shop where he ate his meals now had a rack of them. If he wasn't supposed to see or read the thing, he reasoned, they wouldn't have made it available in the shop.

  He approached his tiny apartment from Central Park West. Aamil liked the look of the trees as they gained their leaves and began hiding the previously exposed networks of branches.

  Wednesday nights had turned into an added game. While Aamil was desperate to scour the copy of the Village Voice, he also didn't want to give away any of the ground he'd added while exploring the city streets. With each block he walked along Central Park, Aamil felt the growing desire to read through the pages of the newspaper. Then, it dawned on him. Why not just do both? He could easily sit on one of the benches that he was passing that lined the exterior of the park and read the paper. That's what New Yorkers did. With a deep breath of cool night air, he chose an empty bench and sat. He looked up and down the street; no one was paying him any mind.

  Aamil greedily scanned the paper's classifieds in hopes that there would be some type of show that he could audition for. And, there it was, a call for dancers. The ad did say "unpaid." But, that was fine. He felt in his pocket, found a quarter, and nearly ran to the pay phone on the corner. With trembling fingers he dialed the number, waited with anticipation through each ring…ring….ring.

  "Hello?" a woman asked at the other end of the line.

  "Um, hi, I'm…" he couldn't think. His mind was a complete blank.

  "Yes?" the woman gently urged. "You've reached Sara."

  "I'm calling about the ad in today's Village Voice." He'd done it. He'd put his thoughts together and let them pass out his lips.

  "Oh, yes. We're looking for dancers for a very brief show. We'll have three rehearsals over the next three Monday evenings and then on the forth Monday we'll have a single performance of one musical number." The woman sounded kind to Aamil as she rattled off the details.

  "I'm…I'm…I'm not a professional dancer," said Aamil, feeling crestfallen.

  "That doesn't matter. We need forty men and you'll be taught all you need to know."

  Aamil's mind whirled. He could do this.

  "One thing we will ask of you is that you don't tell anyone you're involved in this production number until after it is over. Not even your mother," the woman had a chuckle in her voice.

  Aamil thought of his mother. This is what she wanted for him, to live the life of an American. To have freedom to do as he pleased in this nation. "I'll do it!"

  For another few minutes Sara offered the details of where the first rehearsal would be and what was expected. Aamil did his best to take all the information into his head.

  As he walked home, feeling smug and satisfied, he had a thought: could this be a Flash Mob? He wasn't allowed to tell anyone. That's what Sara had said. They'd provide a costume and the location of the event at the last moment. She had asked for his phone number and, not having a phone, but not wanting to admit that, he gave her the number from the pay phone. He'd have to hang around there the morning of the performance and await the call. He'd work it out. He'd worked out everything so far. And, at least the phone was at his corner. By the time he unlocked the door and entered his apartment, Aamil was practically floating on air.

  A cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air of The Piano Bar as a young, buxom waitress belted out the final strains of the torch song, Someone to Watch Over Me, from the popular musical Crazy for You. Billy, who had just ordered a round of drinks for their table, whispered to the waitress while Hank, Nancy Ann, Sara, and several of the 42nd Street chorus applauded for the finished song.

  On her way back to the bar to fill the drinks order, the waitress stopped and whispered to the Piano Player who was vamping between numbers. He smiled and then looked out into the dark, smoky room and waived in Billy’s direction. He mouthed the word “Now,” and Billy nodded his head in agreement.

  “Do we have a treat for you tonight here at The Piano Bar. You’ll want to get out your cell phones for this next number. It gives me great pleasure to welcome one of the stars of my current Broadway show, 42nd Street, and his boyfriend up to the stage.” The Piano Player continued talking while his musical vamping shifted to Lullaby of Broadway.

  “What have you done?” Hank asked, his eyes sparkling.

  As soon as Billy stood, the crowd went wild with applause and catcalls. “I thought we’d try out a number or two together. Come on, it’ll be fun,” said Billy. He took Hank, who offered feigned resistance, by the hand.

  “What are we singing?” Hank whispered into Billy’s ear once he got to his feet.

  Billy responded with his own whisper as the two men made their way on to the small stage. While the Piano Player continued playing brief snippets from 42nd Street, he also whispere
d with Billy and Hank. The audience continued clapping for a few more moments.

  The crowd whispered and snapped photos as the Piano Player launched into a musical intro, no one other than the three on stage seemed to know what song it went to. Billy began with the lyric: “Why do they think up stories that link my name with yours?” from “People Will Say We’re In Love.” The audience burst into combined applause and laughter which continued as Billy and Hank sang the traditionally “straight” Laurey and Curly love song from Oklahoma. The number ended with the singers in each other’s arms, kissing. The audience went wild.

  After more whispering with the Piano Player, Billy and Hank stayed on the small stage and sang another classic: “Sisters” from White Christmas. This time, when the song ended, Billy took the snifter into the audience and went from person to person and coaxed each and every one to add some cash to the glass fishbowl. He willingly posed for photos and signed autographs as he made his way among the tightly packed tables. When he reached the back of the room, the Piano Player launched into “Bosom Buddies” from Mame with Hank taking the Angela Lansbury role, leaving Billy his favorite, Bea Arthur lines to sing.

  After their numbers, the boys returned to their table. Along the short walk, they shook hands and slapped backs with many the bars’ patrons. They gladly took photos and signed autographs for anyone who asked, all the while singing along with all the songs that required audience participation. By the time the two left for home, there was a line out the door of new arrivals attempting to get into the small club, trying to be part of New York City history.

  Eighteen

  Crowds bustled in the unseasonably warm spring morning air at the South Street Seaport. Waves of tourists lined up with tickets to visit the tall ships docked at the historic, wooden wharf. They drank bottles of cold water and wiped sweat from their foreheads as they waited to board the replicas of the ancient wooden structures, docked at the wharf in honor of Veteran's Day.

  Suddenly, music blared from speakers around the dock and three men, dressed like sailors, started dancing. Within thirty seconds they were joined by dozens of other's, also dressed in various versions of sea-going costumes.

  "What's going on," a woman asked the young man next to her.

  He didn't take his eyes off the small screen on his cell phone. "Flash Mob."

  "This is a Flash Mob?" she shrieked in delight. "I've been hearing about them on the news!" The woman clapped her hands along with the music, stepping forward a little to block anyone else from obscuring her view of the forty men dancing a complicated routine in perfect synchronization.

  "Oh my God," said the young man with the cell phone, "that's Billy Lake and Hank Miller!" His indifference dissolved into an excitement level that matched the woman's.

  "Who?" she asked.

  The young man didn't answer. He stepped a little forward and lifted his left hand and pointed to the center of the melee at the Broadway stars.

  At the edge of the crowd, closer to the ships, Amy Senteri and her faithful cameraman turned their attention from the ship captain they'd been interviewing for a segment to air later that day and taped the dance routine. Once again, Amy Senteri had an exclusive on a New York City Flash Mob. Her heart skipped several beats as she watched the handsome men work through their intricate and at times acrobatic routine. She recognized Billy Lake and Hank Miller at the center of the dancers and whispered direction to her cameraman who got several well centered shots of the young stars.

  The music ended and the crowd burst into applause. The men wanted to bow. They wanted to receive credit for their actions. But, that wasn't the plan. The music ended and all the sailors dispersed into the crowd, each one quickly connecting with the person who held their street clothes. They grabbed at their belongings and did all they could to escape the appreciative crowd without speaking to anyone.

  Jericho Taylor watched the dancers scatter from his bird's eye view of the scene at the top of the dock. He sipped his coffee, thrilled at how well this Flash Mob had gone. He was delighted that Amy Senteri was there to capture it. The woman had very good karma or something to be filming at yet another Flash Mob location. "What are the odds," Jericho whispered to no one. "Did you get that, boy?" Jericho asked the young man standing next to him with a small digital video camera.

  "Got it, Jericho." The boy smiled. They gave each other a small kiss.

  Jericho had to admit that this new boy was very handsome. He was obedient and as attentive as a golden retriever. Yet, at times, many times actually, Jericho just couldn't remember the boy's name. At first he thought his age was maybe catching up with him, that he was developing early stages of dementia or Alzheimer's. But, when he looked at the boy, a boy who looked similar to the dozens Jericho had been attracted to and had sex with over his lifetime, he simply realized that none of them mattered anymore. Sure, the sex was fun. It was great being with a young, chiseled man with never-ending stamina. But, the truth of this moment was that he'd fallen in love and couldn't have the object of his obsession. He felt trapped with these young, inconsequential boys who were happy to sleep with him in hopes of a chance on Broadway. After all, Jericho had made a star out of Billy, his latest fling, right? That's what these young hopefuls believed.

  Had he actually fallen in love with the Billy? He wanted to deny it, and if anyone were to ask, he would. But, in the hallows of his soul, Jericho knew that he had, in fact, fallen for the young man. It wasn't just because he was handsome, young, and hung. He realized now that there was more to it. There had to be. In the end, the two men hadn't slept together. After all those months of living together, even seeing each other naked at times, nothing beyond a few kisses had transpired physically between them. Yet, Jericho had fallen in love. He cared about Billy. He was interested in the boy's future. He wanted to be a part of that. But, he'd waited too long.

  Jericho didn't begrudge the relationship developing between the two young stars. Billy and Hank were almost the same age. They seemed perfect together, an absolute fit. And, the press just loved them. Photos of the boys around town, at restaurants and late night cabarets, graced Page Six, and all the New York tabloids. The entire city was falling in love with them. Jericho appeased himself with the knowledge that if it weren't for him, Billy would have been on a bus back to Cleveland, but instead was now the toast of Manhattan. Even that thought, something that would usually allow him to feel better, did nothing to alter his sense of loss and loneliness.

  Amy spied Jericho and waved. Jericho raised his coffee cup in acknowledgement. He wasn't in the mood for an interview. He wasn't in the mood for more press. Flash Mobs should be anonymous he again resolved, knowing that would never be the case with his events. Jericho turned and started to walk away from the railing. The boy du jour dutifully followed at Jericho's heels.

  * * *

  Billy and Hank ran through the crowds and met up with Nancy Ann who held their belongings. They quickly flung their backpacks over their shoulders and took off at a sprint, Nancy Ann bouncing along in their wake.

  "That was great. You guys were great," she shouted into the air behind the running boys.

  Sara and her dance boy caught up with the threesome who all ran another few blocks before stopping.

  "There, there's a coffee shop," said Hank. "I told you there was one there." He playfully nudged Billy's shoulder.

  The five stood in the entrance. Catching their breath, they waited to be seated. All of them kept turning their heads from the shop door to the street, hoping no one had followed them. As they waited to be seated they were lured inward by the familiar morning smells of a New York City diner. The three men made their way to the restroom in the back of the restaurant to change from their sailor costumes back into their street clothes.

  The waitress seated Sara and Nancy Ann at a rear table; the boys returned, looking “normal” and feeling safe from detection.

  Nancy Ann slapped Billy's hand as it rested on the table. "You guys were great. That's defi
nitely the best Flash Mob ever."

  "Shhh," said Sara.

  "Oh, stop," said Nancy Ann. "The great Jericho Taylor isn't around to torment you. You're allowed to live your life and enjoy it." Nancy Ann flashed a smile at Sara. No one ever asked her opinion on the subject, but if they had she'd tell them that she didn't agree with the way Jericho treated his assistants. The director had tried to treat Nancy Ann that way many years ago and she told him flat out to knock it off. Nancy Ann was a professional and deserved respect. She knew that about herself and felt disgust toward anyone else who didn't know that about themselves, too.

  Sara fell silent. She didn't like to argue with Nancy Ann who was established with Jericho, had been for years. Sara could be jobless at any moment and she knew it. The man was fickle and unpredictable in his relationships. Especially if you weren't fully established which seemed to take four or five years. She still had three or four more years of service to go before she'd be set for life. Sara wasn't taking any chances.

  The group ordered big breakfasts from the friendly waitress.

  "I love New York diners," said the young chorus boy in Sara's charge. "I love everything about this city."

  The other's nodded along with his comments. Billy wanted to make fun of the kid, another new chorus boy fresh off the Midwest-turnip truck. But, he didn't say a word. After all, he'd been in the same boat just a few months ago. He was proof that anything can happen in New York City. And, everyone who makes it must first fall in love with New York diners.

  The quintet fell silent. Each one lost in their own thoughts for a few moments. The warm, steamy diner with its comfortable smells, the adrenaline of the Flash Mob and sprint that followed, and memories of other diner moments in their New York lives filtered through their heads until the food arrived.